


Jumped

by dyingpoet



Series: Sprace one shots [21]
Category: Newsies - All Media Types
Genre: Blood and Violence, Canon Era, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-26
Updated: 2018-09-26
Packaged: 2019-07-17 16:45:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,925
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16099703
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dyingpoet/pseuds/dyingpoet
Summary: Spot's got a couple of people out after him, and Race is in the wrong place at the wrong time





	Jumped

**Author's Note:**

> yo yo yo hope yall like this bc it took me ages of hair pulling to finish it :)

Spot rolled his eyes and shoved half heartedly at Race’s shoulder, nearly knocking him off the curb into the street. 

“There ain’t no way Jackie eva’ did that, dumbass,” he drawled, lips fighting back the edge of a smile, it might be getting dark but there was no way he was acting soft out in public. “I’d bet a million bucks he jus’ got off early and told all’a ya that story.”

Race gasped and held a hand to his heart, stopping dead in his tracks. “How dare ya call the great Jack Kelly a liar. The best newsie in all’a New York  _ did  _ ride outta the Refuge on the back of good ole’ Teddy’s carriage.

“He ain’t-”

“And,” Race cut in quickly, “he did it with busted up ribs, saw ‘em with my own two eyes, Spotty.”

Spot snorted and Race barked out another laugh, rushed steps catching up with Spot’s brisk pace. They had about fifteen minutes to get Race to the bridge so he could get back before it got dark; the bulls had been all over the place after sunset lately, especially in Manhattan, and Spot had been walking Race to the bridge the last couple days to make sure he got at least half of the way there safely. 

“Whateva’ ya say.” Spot kicked at a busted beer bottle and enjoyed the little bounce in his step he always got whenever he walked back with Race. The kid had an infectious air about him, you either perked up around him or he’d crack some sort of joke until you couldn’t help yourself. 

He actually allowed a bit of a smile when Race opened his mouth after an agonizing fifteen seconds of uncharacteristic silence. 

Lucky he was looking at him actually. He managed to catch his eyes widening for a split second before anything else happened.

* * *

Race was about to hit spot with a good ole’ Brooklyn insult, he face always got a little red when he tried to snap back at Race because he  _ really  _ wasn’t that good at it, when he saw the guys round the corner out of the alley. The biggest one he knew was Carver, he’d gotten kicked out of Brooklyn lodging a couple weeks back for beating on the younger kids. The other two he didn’t know but damn if they were big, and fast, too. 

He started for a second and struggled to get anything out to warn Spot, but the look on his face must’ve done the job just as good

Spot whipped around and was hitting one of the guys in the face before Race could get any more than a step forward in defense. Carver was the one who saw Race and nodded at one of the other guys, all while slamming a struggling Spot in the face. Three versus one wasn’t fair play. 

“Hey, back off,” Race snarled. It sounded weak even to him, and he swung first to try and make up for it. The guy probably had three years and twenty pounds on Race, so the hit landed but didn’t do much. 

There was the dull sound of bone hitting bone before his jaw was on fire. “Shut the fuck up, kid.”

Everything was sort of hazy after that, his knees were kicked out and he was being dragged back into an alley. Spot was cursing and the two other voices were angry and he couldn’t see all that well but he knew they just kept hitting him. 

He lunged forward blindly and got clipped in the face again before his wrists were captured and twisted upward behind his back. Unable to stop, he cried out in pain, a stabbing pain shooting up through the bone.

“Don’t move or I’ll break em’,” the guy growled. He laughed roughly in Race’s ear then, and forcing his eyes open Race saw Spot, through what he really wouldn’t like to admit were the beginnings of tears. 

They were real tears then very suddenly, because Spot was getting  _ killed _ . 

“Betta’ watch you’re goddamn mouth nex’ time, Conlon,” Carver bit out. Spot’s blood was all over his hands and his boots too, splattering onto the ground because they weren’t even letting him fight  _ back _ . 

Race struggled for a second before the grip on his wrists tightened and the pain shot through his whole body. “Let ‘im go, he ain’t even fightin’ back, ya coward!”

“Shut ‘im up, Ice.”

Carver got Spot on the ground just as Ice, apparently, dropped Race’s wrists. Carver got in a hard kick to a strangely limp Spot just as Race ducked his head and made to rear forward. And finally, there was a sickening crack and a strangled scream from the bloody pile that now was Spot just as Ice send an elbow straight into Race’s temple.

There was nothing after that.

* * *

The pain through Spot’s arm was like being stabbed and burned a thousand times over in the span of a second, and despite one of them being swollen shut and steady stream of blood dripping from the gash on his forehead onto the other, it was enough to get his eyes open.

Race dropped to the pavement just as Spot’s arm stopped feeling anything at all. Any fight left in him was bloodied and beaten to the point of collapse and sluggishly he knew he should be trying to get to Race. Race.

Nothing really mattered besides Race and they might kill Race after they killed him. They were going to kill him.

The last blow he felt before either passing out or moving on completely was a kick to the ribs. 

“Hope ya learned ya lesson, fucker,” was the last thing he heard before everything stopped.

* * *

“Spot?”

It was sort of funny that the first thing to come out of his mouth after a beating like that was Spot’s name, but he didn’t care. The elbow to the head didn’t give him the luxury of letting him forget for a second or two. 

Weakly, he pushed himself into an upright position and leaned against the trash can he’d been thrown against. It was dark, he had to have been out for at least an hour, and an hour was long enough for a lot of things to happen. 

“Spotty?” Race called, stronger this time, eyes scanning the wall opposite as they adjusted, landing on a still pile of beaten kid and blood soaked clothes. “C’mon pal, get up.”

The whole alley spun and he he gripped the trash can for support before stumbling the few feet between him and Spot. On his knees, he shook roughly at Spot’s shoulder and turned him onto his back.

A soft gasp. God he’d never seen an arm stick out that funny before. 

“Race?”

Spot’s eyes fluttered open, one was almost completely swollen shut, the other was covered in a mess of blood that had long since dried. If he hadn’t been so happy Spot wasn’t dead he probably would have been sick. 

“Yeah it’s me,” Race hummed shakily, “We gotta get ya back to lodging Spotty, you’se messed up real bad.”

“I can’t feel my fingers, Race.”

Race winced and gently tilted Spot’s head to look up at him, the pain might kick in if he got a good look at his arm. “I know, that’s why we’se gotta get ya back to lodging, Sunny’s gonna fix ya up real nice, okay?”

Spot groaned just the slightest bit and his good eye searched Race’s face groggily. “Wha’ ‘bout you?”

Waving him off, Race hooked an arm under Spot’s knees and gently lifted him to get one underneath his shoulder blades. “I’m fine, takes more’n a good couple hits to get me down, ‘Hattan blood and all.”

“‘t hurts,” Spot moaned. Race had tried to get the broken arm to lie against his own, but it still looked wrong. “Fuckin’ bastard.”

Race knew he meant Carver, and he felt his chest tighten as he stood. It deflated just as quick though, Spot was letting out cracked groaned between breaths and it was only two blocks to lodging but it felt like every step was him digging a knife into Spot with the way he sounded. 

There were a lot of Brooklyn newsies. If he dragged in their leader, king even, beat to shit on their own turf into lodging, Carver wouldn’t be his problem anymore. Give it a day and he wouldn’t be anyone’s problem anymore, ever.

“I know, we’se gonna get you fixed up, ‘s okay.”

Spot didn’t seem to hear him and Race wasn’t sure he believed it anyway. Emerging from the alley, he fought the urge to readjust the broken kid in his arms and started making his way down the block. 

Rain was looking awful close.

* * *

 

“Yeah we used Flint’s old splint on ya,” Sunny said heavily. The kid looked exhausted, there were bags under his eyes and if he’d been in better shape Spot would’ve dragged his ass to a bunk. “And ya only needed stitches on that gash on ya face, the rest I got all cleaned up.”

Shifting to sit up, Spot bit back a wince and looked down at his torso; it was all black and blue poking out from layers of bandages. Apparently Sunny had had to cut into Spot’s shirt to get it off without fucking up his arm any more, and he shouldn’t even  _ think _ about shrugging another one on until his arm was a little better. 

“Thanks for cleanin’ me up, Sun.”

Sunny nodded through his yawn and jerked his head to the foot of the bed. “Kid ain’t movin’ either, nearly ripped Smokes’ head off when ‘e tried to get ‘im to earlier.”

Spot snorted and watched Race’s curled up chest rise and fall in his sleep. “‘S okay, ya can leave ‘im then, ain’t no use makin’ a fuss ‘bout it this close to the bell.”

“‘Kay.” Sunny grabbed the bundle of Spot’s bloody clothes, excluding the shirt, they’d trashed that the second it was off him, and started for the door. “Ya should be up and good ta sell in a few days, week tops. The guys and I’se got ya covered ‘till then.”

“Tell ‘em I said thanks, and don’t let the little kids sell alone ‘till ya got Carver,” he called out after Sunny, getting a nod and a cap raised in the air in confirmation. 

The door banged shut behind him and Spot let out a deep sigh, partly disjointed from the ache in his ribs, and leaned his head back.

There would be hell to pay once he was up, the dumbass had busted up his left arm and he could still break a nose with his right by itself. 

But, he thought, snorting quietly, it didn’t matter. The first thing he saw when Race had dragged him into the lodge was about ten newsies bolt out the door faster than anything. The guy was either six feet under or halfway across the state by now, his goons too. 

Race whimpered in his sleep and Spot looked down at him. His face was busted up pretty bad, and he’d bet all of Brooklyn that Jack Kelly would be breaking down his door in the morning looking for him. 

He actually let out a rough bark of a laugh at the thought of the “best newsie on all’a New York” motherhenning over the pretty boy. 

“You’se a good one Racer,” he said, voice barely reaching a whisper, “a damn good one.”

**Author's Note:**

> i had to hurt spot for once guys, poor race gets fucked up a lot
> 
> leave kudos and/or comments if you want to brighten a tired author's day :^)


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